


a tale of two soups

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Cold, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Food, Future Fic, Mushy, Romance, Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy and Coulson enjoy taking care of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a tale of two soups

"Please, Daisy, just – just rest."

"I'm okay, I don't need to rest. What makes you say I need to rest?"

"Daisy, please," he asks her again, grabbing her shoulders and gently pushing her to stay down on the bed.

"But I have tons of stuff to do. Where did you put my laptop?"

"Simmons hid it."

"Where have you put my _other two_ laptops?"

"You don't have to push yourself," he reminds her. "You're sick."

"But we have to find out who's been making those calls tipping the authorities," she argues – Coulson is half convinced she got ill because she's been obsessing over this new case so much. 

"Yes, but you have to trust your team."

"I trust them but..."

_You have to do everything yourself_ , he fills in, he knows, he knows her well, too well, except for the times when that doesn't seem to be enough.

"The team asked me to mediate," he tells her, so maybe embarrassment will get through. "You're driving them all crazy."

Daisy rolls her eyes at him.

"They didn't say that."

"They did. Mack's words were _please, sir, get her out of here before we all lose it_."

"Why _you_?"

"They thought you might listen to me."

She snorts. "Good luck with that."

Coulson smiles softly.

"That's what I told them," he says.

"But _I'm okay_."

As if on cue she sneezes, so hard that the objects on her desk tremble – okay that was her powers, not the sneeze, technically.

"Oh crap," she says, when she notices her slip-up.

Coulson looks at her. She's gone pale. Paler.

"I think you should probably get some drugs now."

"I think I should."

"Come on, get into the bed, I'll bring them to you."

He was going to get her a glass of water but then he worries she'd need more so he bring the whole pitcher to her room. Daisy is fighting a dirty war against both the bed cover and her own sweater. Coulson helps on the sweater front, pulling it over her head. The straps of her top are soaked through with sweat, sticking to her shoulders, the skin almost glistening. She should probably get a shower but he decides she needs the rest more urgently.

"I'm okay," she says. "I can work."

One last pathetic attempt.

"Daisy... no."

She frowns, defiant, but her shoulders give up before she does. She finally lies down and lets Coulson help her with the covers.

When he comes back to check up on her about an hour later Daisy is wrapped in the same bed covers, turning over and over like she hates them. She has somehow walked herself to the closet and put on her pajamas. But it seems like at least the drugs have made her somewhat more comfortable. Her eyes don't look so tired anymore and there's the easy smile with which she greets him. Coulson knows it's partly chemically-induced but he appreciates it, the easiness of it, because nothing with Daisy is ever easy for him.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Lighter," she says. "Lighter. No more superpower fiascos, right? The base hasn't shaken?"

"It hasn't," Coulson assures her. "No shaking."

"Good. Good."

"I've brought you some food," he tells her, leaving the tray on the desk. "Think you're up for it?"

"You're very nice," she says.

There's a funny doped drawl to her words. Coulson throws a sympathetic smile her way.

"Your cold medication is very nice, I'm just trying to keep you in your bed."

"Well, you're nice sometimes, other times you're..." she blows a rasperry and Coulson tries not to take it personally.

He sits on a corner of her bed and passes the tray.

Her face lights up when she tastes it.

"Oh my god what is this? This is amazing."

"Potato cheese soup," he says, feeling stupidly proud of himself, just because _she likes it_. "My grandmother's recipe."

"What's the secret ingredient this time?" she teases.

"Paprika."

Daisy chuckles, obviously feeling a lot better, and Coulson is inexplicably relieved. It's just a cold, he _wasn't worried_ , but maybe he was a bit. He stares while she eats. Her lips are dry, cracked from the fever and her nostrils are bright pink, her eyes reddish. He wouldn't say he looks beautiful – that sort of thing feels awkward to him, why would anyone tell a woman she's beautiful when she's sick, it's like saying _I find your discomfort aesthetically pleasing_ , no, he would rather see Daisy in perfect health and with her usual energy. But it's true that seeing her like this makes him feel heavy with affection for her. She looks smaller than usual. Coulson has always thought of Daisy as so big, bigger than anything.

"I'm sorry about this," she says, stirring the soup with the spoon.

"Anyone can catch a cold. What are you sorry for?"

"Bothering people," she explains with a downcast expression. "Bothering _you_."

"You're not bothering me," he tells her. He would tell her the idea is ridiculous but it isn't to her, and he knows where it comes from. Even with the drugs smoothing things over of course Daisy is going to worry about that sort of thing.

She gives him a nod of appreciation and finishes her food. When she gives him the bowl back she has about a hundred more "thank you"s to say, until Coulson frowns and tells her to please stop.

"You can have your laptop back in a couple of hours if you feel better."

"Will you bring me more food?" Daisy asks.

"If you want."

"I always want more food."

He thinks about bringing her something sweet next time.

"Do you need more blankets? I think I saw more in your closet," he says, standing up to look for them.

"Wow, you're really getting into mother hen mode here," Daisy comments.

He stops in his tracks and comes back to her, sitting next to her on the bed.

"Sorry. Am I overwhelming you?"

She shakes her head gently, like deep down she likes it. Maybe Coulson is just hopeful. Daisy is Daisy so of course he wanted to see her be taken care of – in details, ordinary details, she doesn't need anyone to save her life or tell her what to do, but maybe Coulson wants her to have people who would say a kind word to her after a mission or asked if she's sleeping well when she looks tired (she looks tired so often). And Daisy has people in her life who do that but Coulson would like it to happen more, all the time. He should probably do it more often himself – is trying to do it more often, but a part of him tell him he doesn't have the right and he holds back on how he really wants to show her she is cared for.

He touches her arm. The fabric of her pajama top feels nice against his fingers, like Daisy has worn it for a long time.

"I should let you get some rest now," he says.

"Thank you."

But he doesn't move and he wonders how much he can linger here with her before it becomes suspect and suddenly Daisy's arms are wrapped around his back and his own hands have travelled, easily and without him noticing, to the hollow between her shoulders, to the small of her back. She's hugging him, unexpectedly and close. He can feel how hot her body is under the layers of clothes, her quick heartbeat. The dampness at the back of her neck when his fingers touch her hair.

"Thank you for taking care of me," she says in a low voice. He knows the medication is partly to blame. She probably means it anyway.

Coulson feels like a fraud upon her words.

"I haven't always done so," he confesses, whispering into her neck.

"No kidding," Daisy says, softly. Maybe it's a good thing they can't see each other's faces right now. "But you've always _wanted_ to."

He can't argue with that.

He strokes her back through the fabric of her top.

"You'll catch my cold," she warns him, but she doesn't move away from the embrace.

"Mm-uh," he mutters.

It's not a bad deal, he thinks.

 

+

 

"You're a good cook," he says after the first taste.

Daisy raises her eyebrow. "Don't you sound so surprised."

She's pretty proud. Carrot soup, his favorite. Lightly spiced, like he likes it. The handful of coriander on top. She's been picking things from Coulson along the way, tricks, and she's got a taste for it – sometimes. She can see why Coulson likes cooking, and specially why he likes cooking for her. It feels good to do that for someone you love.

Coulson looks at it as much as he eats it, like he's not sure how he feels about it. The blanket over his shoulders slips every time he brings a spoonful to his mouth and every time Daisy reaches to put it over his body again with a shake of her head.

"I don't think a woman has ever made soup for me before," he says, speaking to the bowl.

Daisy is pretty sure that's not true – there's his mother to start with, though she is okay with not being compared to her for obvious reasons. She strokes his back while Coulson finishes the soup and can feel how weak and uncomfortable with it he is, the whole having to stay put because he's too ill to work. They're both awful patients (as Simmons never fails to mention) and now Coulson is so quiet, and like a helpless kid, in a way that makes Daisy get inorderly mushy about him. She runs her fingers across his nape, scrapping her nails gently over the knots of nerves, Coulson closing his eyes to the gesture and letting out a low purring noise. His hair looks darker because it's wet from the sweat and Daisy can barely make-out the gray she has seen grow and has no doubt contributed to. 

"I'm sorry," he says, turning to her with a guilty expression.

Thankfully Daisy hasn't seen him get sick often, but she knows colds (and cold medicine, which he hates) make him mellow and apologetic.

"It's a cold, Coulson. You've done nothing wrong."

"But there's work to do."

"There's always work to do, you can take a sick day," Daisy tells him. She knows he has like three thousand days of vacation SHIELD owes him. Maybe one day they could take them together. Except the kind of life they lead is not kind to people who plan that much in advance. 

"And I'm taking up your time too," he points out. "You shouldn't have to–"

"Take care of my boyfriend when he's ill? I'm no expert because technically I'm not human but I think humans do that sort of thing."

She presses a smile against his cheek. It's hot and it's damp and he's kind of disgusting right now and Daisy has never found him cuter, all fragile and tiny and perched on the kitchen stool with the blanket over his shoulders and holding the bowl of soup in his hands like it's the most precious object he's ever had in his possession.

Coulson catches her looking, catches her smile.

"I think you should ask me to marry you," he tells her.

Daisy laughs.

"So now that you know I _can cook_ you want to put a ring on it, uh?"

Coulson puts the bowl away and presses his fingers against her open palm.

Oh he's serious.

"I want to give you the best years of my life," he says.

Daisy blinks at him. "Phil, you're fifty-three."

He looks away, cheeks flushed even worse than with fever.

"It's from a movie," he tries to explain. " _I want to give you the best years of my life_. It's from –"

"A movie, I know. Bogart. You forced me to watch it because you like movies about journalists."

He narrows his eyes at her. "You think you know me so well."

"I know you pretty well," she replies, smug, and chuckles and laces their fingers together.

Coulson coughs. For real, not to distracted her from his botched attempt at a proposal. It sounds a bit painful. Daisy decides not to be the kind of person who panics about this stuff but she goes to check in his bag and see if he has enough drugs to tide him over tonight.

" _Daisy_ ," he calls because he knows her so well, knows what she's doing.

"What?"

He gestures for her to sit next to him again.

She does, sighing.

"You've made me soup," Coulson tells her. "That's a marriage proposal in the language of my people."

Her lips curl. " _Really_? Because you've made soup for me in multiple occassions."

"Yeah, and you've never gotten the hint."

She runs her hand over his forehead.

"You get flirty when you are fevered," she jokes.

Coulson slips his arm from under the blanket and grabs her by the waist, pulling her to him, bringing their mouths together. She probably already has whatever germs Coulson might pass so what the hell. Coulson kisses her like he hasn't seen her in _weeks_ , exploring her mouth with such urgency and sadness that one might think they are not going to see each other in weeks, either. Daisy settles her hands against his chest, settles easily against his body. That's the word again, one of those moments that make Daisy realize being with Coulson is the easiest thing she's done in her entire life.

She would love to stay and properly make love to him while he is all cute and weak and needy like this. But duty comes first if not in importance at least chronologically. She'll be back tonight and maybe they can have that moment.

He lets out a pained whimper when she pulls away.

"I do have to get back to the base soon," she says, drawing her hand over his heart. Coulson throws a dismal look around the safehouse. Not the nicest place in town but close to the Playground, and convenient when she has to keep him from passing the cold around the team. "I brought you a couple of books, it's better if you stay here until you're 100%. There's more food on the fridge. I'm leaving you my ipod, look for the playlists with your name. Uh... anything else?"

"Stop worrying," he tells her.

"No work. Okay? I mean it."

Coulson nods solemnly but he's not better than her at giving himself a break so there's no point in threatening to check. She'll just tell everybody to ignore his calls when she gets back to the base. If he really needs something he could call her.

He pouts a bit when she finally stops lingering and puts on her jacket.

She is about to leave but then she thinks back on Coulson's comment about the soup proposal. Wouldn't that be a great story? Daisy is exactly that impulsive, she'd do it for the story.

She'd do it because there could never be such a thing as a bad proposal story with Coulson.

Daisy walks back to the kitchen table.

"Hey," she says, touching her fingers to his wrist, making him look. "I don't care if they are not the _best_ years. I want them."


End file.
